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When that stupid alarm goes off, here's what I usually do: My phone is often charging next to me, so I can get brain cancer or whatever later in life. I like to ensure my future. So I grab the phone and see if any pressing messages came my way overnight. Answer: No.

Steely Dan just hopped up here and does HIS morning routine, which is sniff my coffee and make a HUGE production, a Gone With the Wind–size production, out of scraping his judge-y paw all around my offensive coffee, trying to bury it. And today, for the first time, he sniffed the coffee and got some up his kitten nose, so now he's huffed off, sneezing.

I guess he's more of a tea man. Tea for the kittenman.

You wanna know what's wrong with me? The '70s are what's wrong with me. Growing up with everything being trippy all the time.

Anyway, my routine. I check for pressing messages, as if someone from work is going to email me at 4 a.m., and believe it or not I do get meeting requests in the middle of the night, god knows why. I guess the scheduler can't sleep. But any time someone schedules a meeting, my phone goes BloooooooP! and that used to wake me up and stress me out. Now it doesn't. I sleep right through it. Like people used to sleep through the Blitz. But not the Ballroom Blitz, cause heyyyyyy, it's a Ballroom Blitz.

You wanna know what's wrong with me? The '70s are what's wrong with me.

The other thing I do after ensuring there isn't some kind of 911 proofreader emergency is that I look at Facebook. You know, ultimately, it was Facebook that lead to my final fight with Ned. When he and I broke up in 2015, his family didn't just Facebook unfriend me–which is a logical response and I expected that–but they blocked me, as well. Which I took to mean Oh my god, we've always ABHORRED you.

Then Ned and I got back together and I was supposed to spend Christmas with them all, and the night of our horrible fight, it started with me saying, "I'm nervous about this" and he took it as "I hate your family," which I really did not. His family was cool, actually. They were one of his big draws. But it was one of those times where he heard it the wrong way, and with his temper, it all ended very badly.

That was probably the fourth Facebook fight we'd had. What I'm saying is, Facebook is high school with memes. What I'm also saying is, Ned and I were rarely able to work out our differences, because tempers escalated too quickly. When someone's screaming at me, my cool-headed response is to scream the fuck back. Ned and I were high school with wrinkles.

THE POINT IS, today on Facebook they showed me my memories from the year before, and there was last year's blog post. I read it because apparently I watched The Exorcist last year on this day, and scared the crap outta myself, and was droning on about it.

I talked about how Tallulah was taunting me after by rolling her eyes back and moaning, and how she was the grownup and the pack leader and the parent, and what struck me is how a year ago she was just here. She was just, like, the majorest person in this house, and I just took it for granted, and now she's just gone. It never occurred to me last year that Tallulah just wouldn't fucking be here a year later. I'm sure it never occurred to Carrie Fisher that she wouldn't be here, either.

But speaking of pets whom I take for granted, yesterday Lily had a modeling gig.

"Hey, June, can we use your cat?" the art team wanted to know.

"Sure!" I said, not even checking if it was for some kind of Satan worship or anything. There are plenty more cats. Whatever.

Oh my god. I can't even SEE that lavender kitten. I rearranged, by the way. It's part of my New Era. Do you like it?

Anyway, I took yesterday off, because I had one more vacation day left, and they called me at about 1:00, so I put Lily in a carrier and it became Take Your Fluffy Daughter to Work Day.

Lily in the carrier. I pressed the phone up to a hole at a red light.

When we got there, the approximately .02 people working this week came over to greet her, and I lifted her out of her carrier and took her down the hall to the little room where all the photography and video magic happens.

"Look at the kitty!" everyone said, and I felt like Debra Winger when she visits Patsy in New York, and gets out pictures of her kids.

You know what's wrong with me? Is that I figure everyone remembers who Debra Winger's friend is in Terms of Endearment. "Tell them it's okay to talk about The Cancer."

So, when I first put Lily down, she walked low the way cats do in a new sitch, but Neil the art guy had his kids there, and they are somewhere between 9 and 17. Look at me, getting better with ages. They both loved Lily, of course, and commenced to petting her, and one thing you can say about Lily is that she is a whore.

Oh, she rolled, she simpered, she stuck her ample ass in the air, and in no time, she was so cozy and foot-curly and relaxed that the whole photo sesh (you love it when I say that) took 20 minutes.

I'm also proud of us for using a plus-sized model to let cat women of all sizes know that beauty can be found in basketball-silhouette shapes.

Now today Lily won't get out of bed and wants champagne brought in. So.

Oh, lord, look at the time. I'd better get ready to go to work and wish there was anything to do. This is a dumb week. They should just have Christmas and New Year's on the same day; get it over with.

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Do you know what it means to flounce? People have done it here a few times: It's when something on the Internet bugs you, and instead of just not returning the site anymore, you announce to the group at large that YOU ARE OUT, and you AREN'T COMING BACK, and then you…flounce off.

There's a group on Facebook I'm a part of, and would you mind very much if I didn't reveal what it was? Sometimes I just wanna play on the Internet and not be June Gardens. As it is, I got women lookin' at my OKCupid, and I KNOW you're readers. You could at least HIT on me, 37-year-old chick from Florida or whomever.

Anyway. My point is, I'm in a group on Facebook and yesterday someone flounced. "Guess this group just can't [insert rest of passive-aggressive statement here]. I'm out."

Happens all the time, and it's needlessly dramatic and attention-seeking, which are two of my food groups, however I'm proud to say I've never flounced, I don't think. My POINT is, people started putting up memes in response to the flouncer, and they were KILLING me.

You can imagine. At this point I was giggling like an idiot. The Golden Flounce Award!

I really think my personal favorite was this last one…Simple and elegant.

Anyway, it served to amuse me greatly, and there was much snortling in the land.

In the meantime, I think I'm getting a cold. Everyone at work in these past weeks has been felled by a cold, and today I awoke with that sore throat-y feeling, which annoys me because I have a party to attend tonight and also a New Year's Eve thing I want to go to, and now I'm going to be FELLED, and there will be great moaning in the land. If I were you, I'd flounce till this cold is over. I'd flounce the land.

If I write a book, I should have a whole section on when I complain during my colds. Isn't it true that there are, like, a million different colds you can get and you get a different one each time? Did I invent that in my head? You don't want to be in here. In my land. Save yourself.

I returned to work yesterday, one of .0004 people who did at my office, and I found something to do, at least, but I also took two walks with Griff, which is always inspiring and positive. You'd think two curmudgeons could make a right, and we did make a right, right into Complainland. I like Griff, though. He's my people.

I had one more day off coming to me this year, and my boss, who of course showed up because he's hard-working and organized and sensible, said it didn't really matter which day I took, so I took today. Now probably tomorrow I'll be FELLED by illness and wishing I'd taken tomorrow off.

Once I got everything done at work that I could, I started perusing Target.com, as I'd gotten a gift card to there and didn't know what to buy. My boss, who did I mention sensible and level-headed, came over and said, "Why don't you just wait till you need something rather than look for something to buy?"

This is why he's the boss and I'm the minion. Also because I'm yellow.

Speaking of things in popular culture that I'm not a part of (I don't actually know what Minions are from. I just know they look like Twinkies and are from some movie. Probably one of those movies where people say, "They make it funny so adults enjoy it, too." Yeah. Right.)

But SPEAKING of popular culture, I saw the original Star Wars, once, in 1977, and no other iteration of it after that.

I am not taking Carrie Fisher's death personally because I admired her in a gold bikini or whatever people are into. I admired her writing. Go read Postcards From the Edge. Go read Delusions of Grandma. She and Nora Ephron are the people who, if I could just be half as clever as them, I'd have been happy. Pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth, and that's a lot, is derivative of something Carrie Fisher said first.

My favorite? Instant gratification takes too long.

Not to mention she was my favorite part of my favorite movie: When Harry Met Sally. All the very best lines are hers. I guess she and Nora Ephron must have at least known each other. I'd have stood there like an idiot. I would have said, "LOL" or something similarly embarrassing if I'd been there. "You two are funny." Something awful like that.

What I liked about Carrie Fisher was how she didn't care what you thought of her. And she didn't sugar-coat anything, except probably her sugar, cause it sounds like she enjoyed her a sweet or two, as addicts are wont to do. What I liked about Carrie Fisher is we all knew she was a recovering addict. We all knew she had bipolar disorder. It wasn't some dark bag of secrets she tried to tamp down.

When she had her one-woman show in LA, Wishful Drinking, I went by myself because Marvin was working. There was one part where she talks about working on the set of the movie Shampoo, and I believe she'd been up to that performance saying that she slept with Warren Beatty, which let's face it, she probably did. But at my particular show that I attended, Warren Beatty walked in. He walked in, stood in the aisle with his arms crossed, and when she got to that part, she said Warren Beatty hit on her 19-year-old self, but later told her he was "only kidding."

After that, Warren Beatty uncrossed his arms and left the theater.

And see, that's why I like her. Liked. Goddammit. Because she never felt the need to make herself look any better than she was, and it was BECAUSE she did that that she was more likeable than, say, a phony-ass Warren Beatty who wants to seem like a good guy 30 years after we all know perfectly well he probably gleefully bedded a teenager.

I imagine that she, like me, was probably exhausting to actually hang around, but you sure wanted to hear from her as often as possible, because you couldn't wait for her next pithy observation that you wish you'd have thought of first.

In short, I wish I could be Carrie Fisher. Except not dead. She's right up there for me with Laura Ingalls Wilder, who incidentally would have hated us both.

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I thought of writing you during actual Christmas, but I figured you had enough to do without checking in on my ass. So here's how Christmas went, and I'm sure you're pulling the chair in closer so you don't miss a word.

We got off work early on Christmas Eve eve, so I went to the store (what crowd?) and got stuff to make Christmas lasagna for myself, then I schlepped to the wine store (what white crowd?) and got wine to take to the parties I'd been invited to. June, popular since never, cause frankly she's a pain in the ass, but people felt sorry for me.

I hustled home and Lily gave many shits about my arrival. This bed was for Steely Dan, who I thought was a girl and he couldn't be more of a boy, and therefore gave up this bed after about one try. He sleeps on beds of nails and the talons of dead eagles he's slaughtered and so on. So Lily was happy to take over his girly bed. His Helen Gurly Brown bed.

Anyway, the next 24 hours were something of a blur, and to tell you the truth I was looking forward to the weekend being exactly what I had planned: parties and then me getting to be alone. But I hardly DID get to be alone, with the "Can I drop something off" people and the dropping-in people and the calling-me people and I REALLY AM OKAY ALONE IN FACT I RELISH IT.

My mother sent me money to buy a new back door, so on Christmas Eve I got my eyebrows waxed, then I went to Lowe's, and every time I thought about asking about my back door I got the giggles. I was also just drawn to the mirrors, like a crow.

When I finally peeled myself from the mirrors and stopped giggling over "back door," I sauntered to a cute 17-year-old salesboy, asked about back doors, giggled, then coquettishly let him show me his back doors. [snurfle!]

We talked about back doors [heeeee] for quite awhile, and after I'd convinced myself he was dying to come home and see my back door for himself, I paraded hotly through the store, got to my car, and once I saw myself up close, I gasped. The aloe on my eyes from the waxing had moved all the eye makeup directly onto the center of my eyelid, making me look precisely insane.

I'D HAD A MIRROR AT MY DISPOSAL! WHY DID I NOT SEE IT? Anyway you can't tell up there but trust me. I looked ridik.

Merry Christmas.

I cleaned myself up and put on a dress and headed to my friend Ian's party. I work with him, and I've been knowing him and his wife for awhile now. Back before they moved into the (ADORABLE) house they live in now, they had the apartment next to Ned. Remember Ned? That guy I went out with for awhile?

Here's Ian's wife, who you would love. You would. You would love her. They are both from Puerto Rico, and they know how to host, man. I was the only non-family member there, and I quickly realized I was the only one without an Ivy-League degree, so I was sort of the village idiot. But when am I not?

They have the kind of house you never want to leave, and EVERYTHING.WAS.DELICIOUS. Everything. "Have you ever tried hooo de blodoo-oo?" they'd ask, handing me some Puerto Rican dish. "No!" I'd say, then die at whatever new good thing I was eating. Mother of God.

It was, like, the perfect evening. His whole family is our people.

Edsel and I went to bed so Santa could come. And he did! Mom sent strawberries.

Peg sent flowers.

wat anyone send edzul?

This was the first year I got more gifts from readers than from people I know in my actual life. Just proving that in real life, I am not likable.

I think I'm easy to shop for. Is it vintage? Well, then does it sparkle? You're golden!

As usual, my friend Dot sent me a card with her dog on it, and not her kids. Everyone else gets her kids.

Someone was a Christmas dick.

So, it was a good Christmas, and my lasagna was delicious, even though I realized too late that my whole recipe box is apparently at Ned's. Remember that guy Ned I dated briefly? I did not call for it, but soldiered on with no recipe, and it turns out I know how to make lasagna in my head. Not that I cooked it in my head, cause weird.

Also, I'd like to point out that I moved out of that place 14 months ago and just now noticed my recipes are gone.

Oh, god, loading all these pictures has taken forever and I gotta go. Tomorrow I will show you The Great Dismantling of Christmas and also how I rearranged the furniture. Helen Keller is coming and I want to drive her crazy.

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Yesterday morning my damn computer kept spooling at me and groaning and waving a hanky and basically my computer was Ashley Wilkes, neglecting the wood stack and gazing at the sunset, missing 12 Oaks, so I said "Fuck it" and didn't blog.

At lunch I finally shut the damn thing off and started anew, and my computer seems like it's back to full Mammy strength. Who was it who hated my references to Gone With the Wind all the time? Was it Bitchy Resting Face Alex? Because, irony.

Guess who I just spent the evening with? It was either Ashley Wilkes or BRF Alex. Please note the top of her door. She caught and slaughtered Colonel Sanders. I didn't want to show you the mount she made of him. He's such a beloved figure.

I don't know if it's because I said I never get invited anywhere on my last post, or if I put it into the universe, or–more likely–coincidence, but ever since I was last here, my phone won't shut the fuck up. "Come to this!" "We're having that!" "You're invited!" So that's good. Seriously, I heard from people I haven't heard from in YEARS these past 48 hours. I got so many texts and IMs that I finally got rid of my Facebook message app. Like, my phone was insane. Weird.

Anyway, BRF Alex invited me over to eat some of her delicious chicken pie, which is not a euphemism.

All these years we been knowing each other and she only ever invited me over one other time, and I stood her up–can't remember why, now–and it had become sort of a joke between us how I was never allowed in her house after that faux pas. But now that I'm the new, in-demand June Gardens, that's all changed.

I spent much time obsessing over her dogs, who don't give you much choice. (Mom, I brought them some of the dog cookies. Am hit amoung BRF Alex's dogs.)

Here's black-and-white Edsel.

And black-and-white Tallulah.

There's her husband, whom I ignored because black-and-white versions of my dogs. We banished him. He remembers The Colonel. He stays on his best behavior.

Isn't their house cute? Doesn't it piss you off that people in their 20s have such a cute place? When I was in my 20s I lived under a bridge with some crack.

Anyway, so yesterday we got out of work early. Now I have four long days here with no real plans except for Christmas day, despite my in-demand self. I am determined to not get depressed. I have a whole list of shit I'm doing, none of it that fun, except I do plan to get my brows waxed. Kaye has forbidden it, but I cannot stand myself a minute longer so Ima go spend that six dollars and FUCK IT, KAYE. It's Christmas!

There's next year's Christmas card.

Anyway, so since I was home and it was still light out, Edsel got a long walk, in which he snarled at all dogs, which, is that a self-loathing thing? It's like when I hate all show-offy girls.

We ran into Aunt Peg on our walk. Peg always tries to get Edsel's attention when he's outside, and he never has a word for her.

fuk yoo ant peg

Peg is headed to her daughter's for Xmas, which is good. I worried. I'm still rolling her trash to the curb each week, and she acts like I've bought her a house. It's really not that big a deal. Still. If we wanna go around talking about what a wonderful person I am, I've no issue with that.

One of the things Ima do this weekend, this endless fucking holiday fucking weekend, is pick out which posts I wanna make a book out of. Hence my new truncated look on my posts. Reading the archives on this thing is a pain in the ass. And I don't own Typepad, so there's not much I can do other than this truncating, and having, like, 100 posts on one page.

And while we're on the subject of this blog and readers and so on, here's a blanket answer to the 2394838484 messages I've gotten:

No, dear reader, I would not like you to take me to my colonoscopy. It's very sweet, but it's a, you know, vulnerable thing. My mother is taking me. As that is her job. That's what she signed on for 67 years ago.

Yes, dear reader, I'm sure your package got here. I think this is the first year gifts from readers outnumbered gifts from people I've met, which is once again very sweet. I have opened exactly zero packages that've arrived these past few weeks, because they're mostly from Amazon and I don't know who they're from, but I assume they're Xmas-related. On Christmas I will open them, and thank you accordingly. I need a bridesmaid over to write down the names and the gift.

People must feel sorry for me this year. Join the club. I feel just terrible for me.

Someone is meowing somewhere. Goddammit. Hang on. We all KNOW who it is…

He just wanted attention. God help us, everyone. He's one of those head-butting kitties. He likes to be petted. I like that about him. I do not like the "ME BORED!" meow, however.

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Now, THIS is a Christmas mug. I've forgotten to assault you with images of my Xmas cups this year, and for that your life is sad, I know.

I also forgot to close the door to Steely Dan's feeding area this morning, and Edsel is now the proud owner of dog kibble and canned kitten food. He is now outside so he can have gas merrily across the yard.

Look at my work Christmas party nail polish, going strong, up there! Day 16. If you're not getting gel polish, you're not really living.

Insights, From June.

I feel like I'm never really invited to Christmas parties. People go on about what a busy time of year this is, and every year, I'm kind of, eh. Not really much to do. Do you think it's possible that people don't like me that much? I mean, I AM kind of crabby and so on, but I was thinking that was endearing. I'm like Griff, but a girl. I'll bet my coworker Griff gets invited just everywhere and he doesn't give two shits.

I saw on Facebook that The Naughty Professor had what looked to be a beautifully turned out (turnt) Xmas party at his new home in Charlotte, and me? Not so invited.

Do you feel that way or am I just sort of repugnant?

Actually, in the same vein, there's a guy at work I'm pretty good friends with. I mean, in that work sort of way, where we stop off and talk to each other several times a week, for a good five minutes at a time. He mentioned his birthday party, and then was all, "Sorry I didn't ask you to it."

That was just yesterday, he said that. Why am I a pariah, do you think? I mean, I really do wonder. Wouldn't I bring hilarity to any gathering?

Apparently not.

A lot of the younger people at work have get-togethers that I also see on social media, and I don't feel that bad about it, because young. Do I really want to go clubbing or huffing or whatever the young folk do now? I do not.

By the same token, I never did get my colonoscopy last year. Ned and I had a deal where we'd take each other to said colonoscopy, and now of course that's out of the question. I mean, can you Uber a ride home from a colonoscopy?

I guess I feel sort of sad today, and I know I'm not friendless but I still feel sort of sad. This means you're almost guaranteed to see a mean comment today! Any time I ever express any sort of vulnerability, someone is mean. It's a fascinating phenomenon that I'm prepared for and indifferent to.

In other news, last night I came home from work, after our department's Christmas party (I wonder if they tried to figure out how to not invite me to that?),

Merry fuckin' Christmas.

and when I reached in my mailbox, there were not only 60 thousand Xmas cards, but also a wallet.

A wallet. My theory is my lawn guy found it and put it there.

It's a Christmas miracle! Oddly, this is the second soaking-wet wallet I've found at my house in less than a year. A few months back, I found one in the front yard that belonged to my neighbor. I made Facebook friends with her in order to get in touch with her that day, and now it would appear from her posts that she's going through a bad breakup. Maybe there's something in our water system.

Anyway, this wallet was a Coach, and had no license or money, of course, but there were a lot of things in it and I was able to find a business card of the owner. This poor woman had been Christmas shopping, and she thinks maybe her wallet just fell out of her bag that day. Someone spent $1,800 before she figured out her wallet was gone.

The good news for me is, no thief would find $1,800 of anything in my wallet, unless they were smart enough to run to the vet and use that card. "Eighteen hundred dollars worth of rabies shots! My dog is golden!"

I hear old Breakfast of Champions out there barking. He's probably telling all the other dogs about the delicious turkey kitten food he scarfed today. Asshole.

So, the good news is, the Woman With no Wallet was thrilled to get it back, and she said I made her day, so that was nice. There's one of my good deeds this year. I also went inside the grocery store's ATM the other day to get cash for a woman who was outside asking for money, but when I went out there, she was gone.

Look, I know she was probably going to buy drugs with it. It's Christmas. How to you think it was Joseph forgot to book a room? Maryjane, that's how. It's the spirit of the season.

I like how in my mind, she was off to buy the pot. Could I be more white?

I gotta go. It's almost Christmas, and you know what a hustle-bustle time of year that is.

Yeah.

P.S. I let Edsel in because barking, and went back to writing you, and I JUST HEARD HIM back in the kitten room, eating the rest of the food. Goddammit.

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It's been five weeks since my last root dying (bless me, Father, for I have sinned) and if you're anything like me (God help you) (very God-y post today), you know how THAT is. Roots for days. And because it's the stupid HOLIDAYS, which I HATE, no one is available to do anything around here. Who do I have to FUCK to get my roots done around here? Apparently Mr. Clairol. Sorry, Mrs. Clairol.

So I got me some root cover at the grocery store, because nothing but the best for me, and it's been sitting on my counter annoying me since Sunday. This morning I got everything out of the little dye box: the tray, the brush, the two kinds of dye, the stupid instructions that tell you to test it on your arm like you're ever gonna.

I got out the two bottles of color and dumped them into the tray, only to discover I had the TRAY upside-DOWN, so I had to let all the color slip into the cracks on the sides and desperately attempt to mix the two with teensy little jolts of the now-huge-seeming brush. Then I had to squish the brush into the cracks in an attempt to get the poorly mixed dye onto it, and what I'm saying to you is hair is going to be a disaster today. A disaster. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.

cannot even look

I should cut off that tag.

Today is our work HOLIDAY brunch, which from your Big Book of June Events you'll recall we first had the day after I discovered Roger had been run over. I was in good spirits that year. Since then every holiday brunch I think about how sad I was that year. I really know how to get into the spirit of things.

Look at Lily's little curly foot up there. What a muffin. And no, we did not have a panther invasion; that's Steely Dan. Just 10 days till he's fixin' to sing a higher note, and I for one cannot wait. Oh my god that cat is rambunctious.

He's all boy. He is juxtaposed by Edsel, who is…not.

wut you meen?

In what way do you think you're the least womanly and the most manly? Like, I'm the most girly in my love of makeup and sparkly things. I'm the most like a dude in that women who prattle on drive me crazy, and also gift bags. Someone at work is leaving this week, and she's one of my favorite people, and I was all, "You don't expect me to whip up some kind of goodbye gift bag, do you?"

Of course she didn't.

Oh, and sex. I'm like a dude about sex. When I had a bad day, I used to want to have sex. When Ned had a bad day, the last thing he wanted was sex. He wanted to be all relaxed and in a good mood first. I guess he wasn't a dude about it like I was.

Still not speaking to him, in case you wondered. We've had some perfunctory talks, Do you want this back and so on, but no phone calls and no emails that were more than a line or two. I went back to our Hairapist, because I liked her, and because I wondered how

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Yesterday was ridiculously chilly, and I barely wanted to reach outside to get the mail or to throw out the dog bed SD peed on, and now today it's warm and windy and quite lovely. Also, I've become my grandmother. Hello, weather updates on the Grammy. Later I'll tell you how it's been "pouring the rain."

It's been a hard weekend, and I feel the need to defend poor Steely Dan, who's never once screwed up with his litterbox till now. He came right out into the living room last night and got on the dog bed and looked at me. "Why, he looks like he's a-peein'," I thought to myself, because I only speak to myself in O Susanna voice. I got the banjo off m'knee once I saw he actually had peed, and when I did a quick perusal of all THREE litterboxes, they were in bad shape.

So right then I knew. Steely Dan is a picky litterbox user. He would be one of those people who if there were only Port-a-Johns at the concert, he'd hold it. Or use the dog bed.

Steeelee need it just so, mom

On Friday, I was excited to come home and watch Once is Not Enough, based on the stellar and cerebral novel by Jacqueline Susanne. I didn't even know I knew that was a thing, till I said it at work–it just flew out my mouth. "What's Once Is Not Enough?" asked my boss's boss, former, the one who gave me the eagle calendar last year like it was a thing.

Incidentally, my boss's boss, fmr., informed me that his new soybean datebook is here. So not ONLY does he own eagle calendars like they're a thing, he also carries around soybean datebooks like they're a thing. "A thing" is very big with me today. "So, if that's a 2017 soybean calendar, it's really about soybean futures," I said, then changed my Facebook status to In a Relationship with June Gardens.

Getting back to Once Is Not Enough, because mentioning it once is…not enough. "I don't even know. I think it was a book by Jacqueline Susanne," I said, Google fucking it. Sure enough, it was a book and a 1975 movie starring Kirk Douglas, Brenda Vaccaro, and several actors you saw a million times on Fantasy Island but can't name. Oh my god I couldn't wait to get home and crank up that motherfucker.

So I got me a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store and had myself an evening. Then Saturday I was depressed all day and never left the house.

You know, I like being alone. I like my alone time a lot. But I think maybe the weekend following the weekend you decided, once again–because once is not enough–to end it with someone, and that ending was…ugly, that maybe sitting around your house all day is not really what you'd call productive. Or wise.

I did get my 2016 in review video done for this blog, because once I rested on my laurels

after my 10-year video, I realized, Oh crap. I have to do a 2016 one, too.

"You don't, you know, HAVE to," said annoying Fay, like she has any idea. You know what one is enough of? Fay. I realize that made zero sense. I've been isolating. I'm like Tom Hanks in Castaway. You're basically a volleyball to me now.

And hey, maybe you're going to ask me, "Was Once Is Not Enough good, June?" and I don't even know how you can stand there with your white round face and leather stitching and ask me such a thing. It had a 1975 LESBIAN SCENE. Lesbians in their 50s! Get with it, Wilson.

Anyway, this pretty much sums up Saturday. I did eventually shower, but I never left the house, and mostly sat around feeling sad. It sucks that someone can treat you badly and you still feel sad they're gone. I was furious all week, furious, and didn't feel bad at all. Then yesterday I did.

The good news for Steely Dan is that I was home to throw his mousie for him 800 times.

He and Edsel are best best friends and I don't know how Lily feels about her close bond with Edsel being usurped. I'll let them work out the dynamics.

Iris doesn't give a shit.

Anyway, the good news is I have plans to get together with Marty Martin today, and I must go to the grocery store, because here are the contents of my refrigerator:

Salad dressing

So at least I have those two things to do, and maybe my pall will lift. Or perhaps I'll get into smoking Pall Malls. Or maybe I'll go to the mall. The world is full of mystery. You never know.

I did write a Purple Clover this week; it'll be up there at some point today, if you're interested. It's about Christmas. My favorite.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope I have a more sparkling mood to report.

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I made it all week on my remaining $10, and then payday came and hello mortgage, but still, we got Christmas bonuses this year and you guys donated $10 apiece to celebrate my 10 years of blogging (oh, did you know it was my anniversary of blogging? I never mention it), so I finally had cashola to Christmas shop.

Say, there was a sentence, sentence-maker. Also, thanks, y'all!

I really don't have many people to shop for. My cousin Katie and I have been exchanging good deeds each year in lieu of another shitty candle. She can totally afford to buy me things, and I totally can't, so she's being nice plus also she's that type of hippie who prefers doing good deeds to a gift. I can't get behind people who think that way.

So I did one deed for her and may do another to round it out. It'll be like I got her a shitty candle and also a shitty Christmas ornament. Hey, book club gifts.

That leaves my Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart, my mother and stepfather, and my stepgrandmother, who always wants something perishable or usable, as she has had enough shitty candles for a lifetime. Lifetime, Shitty Candles for Women.

I hate being a woman. I mean, I don't, because I don't ever want to get drafted or be expected to spit or reign in my emotions. But I hate being a woman in this society. Every woman friend I have, all two of them, are outside the norm. One might even say we're a tad cold, in comparison to the hugging, saw-this-and-thought-of-you, gift-bagging, inspirational-card-giving regular women in the world who, you know, nurture.

"If you're turning into her, why don't you just stop yourself?" Ned asked me in a conversation not long before our terrific breakup-and-a-cab-ride finale.

Yeah, that's easy.

I have been poised over the keyboard for a minute, here, stopping myself from further comment.

Moving on.

What I like about myself is I still haven't even made my first point, which is that I could finally afford to Christmas shop, so last night I started.

Last night I finished.

When my Aunt Mary was here visiting this fall, I took her shopping, as that is her joint, and she wanted to go in this kitchen store you'll be stunned to hear I've never even noticed. Oh my god that store was da bomb! All of a sudden I felt I needed teensy teapots and La Crouton or whatever they are products and knives, oh knives and also avocado pitters. Okay, I actually really could use one of those. I eat a lot of avocado.

Why so chubby?

So what I did was, I memorized the things she picked up and admired, and then I forgot them, and then I went back in there yesterday and remembered some of them and Dear Aunt Mary, don't read this post.

I saw some things for mom in there, and I really admired these blue-green coffee mugs, and I wanted to buy one for her and one for me, which is something my Aunt Kathy always does when she buys gifts, but I did not because $21 apiece for a goddamn mug.

Aunt Kathy had kids of her own. We've never exchanged Christmas gifts. But sometimes she sees things and thinks of me. Then thinks of her.

Mom had specific things she wanted for Christmas, and while I was searching, I met this nice woman from Europe who's just moved here and is cold. Cold cold cold. I could tell she was lonely, as she was the one who started talking, and after we were done it occurred to me I really should've slipped her my digits.

I didn't because I feared she might be nurturing. Then I'd be stuck with one of those women who send you little things all the time and tag you on Facebook with cutesy sayings and then I'd spend all my time wondering how to get out of this European debacle like I was America in 1776. Hand me my fife.

The point is, I got my shopping done in an hour, everyone bought for, and then I came home and took 7 hours to wrap everything, because cats are assholes and also because I have no skills. None. I can't wrap a simple box without it looking like I had it wrapped by the Nubs for Hands Society.

Then I put everything in boxes and today I will assault the guy in the mailroom who already hates me because when you guys send me gifts it comes to work. "Another reader gift," he'll say, floomping a package down. It's always, like, Edsel food or an anvil or something. It's never a gift of air.

The point is, I'm a dude. I mean, I'm a dude in every way with the shopping and not nurturing and explosive temper and dick. The only way I'm not a dude is I can't fix anything.

This is for everyone who says, "Iris is faking it. She's not blind." She's faking it really well, then.

Look at S Dan, just plotting his next dick move back there.

So, another part of me being broke this month is that I was out of conditioner. I use this specific kind for curls, and it's expensive, so I washed my hair Sunday and then decided I could just deal with it till Thursday when I could get conditioner.

Yesterday when I was done shopping, I remembered the conditioner, so I went to Ulta, which as you can imagine wasn't crowded at all 10 days before Christmas. I was in the forever line, like stamps without the nice picture of Kwanzaa, behind this man with a cute paper shopping list. Like, what is this, 1972? He was crossing things off it, and I saw him glance back at me, and because you know how I am, I was all, I must be lookin' HOT.

Then I got home and saw my no-conditioner hair. Holy god. He must have been hoping the authorities were on their way. My hair is an octopus.

Also, that nose. You guys. That nose. GODDAMMIT.

Okay, I gotta go. My hair is wet, because you'll be stunned to hear I decided I'd better do something with it.

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Today is the 10-year anniversary of me blogging, and I am certain you are delighted that day is finally upon us, as you are sick to death of my shit.

(These are pictures I found when I Googled byebyepie + 10)

I didn't plan what I was gonna say today, nor did I plan this BRILLIANT idea of Googling "byebyepie + 10," but I did think about these 10 years a lot in the context of this blog.

This started as a way to record my then-husband and me during our year of not spending any money. I know we got a down payment for our house out of it, but after re-reading during this whole, "Wow, 10 years!?" reflection, I see we'd saved TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS by APRIL! Jesus! What the hell with us! I don't even bring home $10,000 by April now.

The point is, that's how I started blogging, and I sent my first blog entry, on the hard-hitting Blogspot, to about 18 friends and family. I remember the day I figured out I was getting 30 unique visitors a day. And you wouldn't believe how many basic visitors I got. They all read me at Applebee's.

Bah. See. It was humor like that that kept 'em returning.

I kept blogging after that first year, and made friends with other bloggers–Musings of a Housewife and The Nester. (Oh my god, look how highfalutin' both their WEBSITES are, and here I still am in Typepad.) Two women I had nothing in common with–they're big fans of God–and yet I loved them both dearly. I mean, I really did. They were funny and sweet and MAN did they help me. Musings taught me how to link other sites, for heaven's sake. Nester mentioned me on her blog and 3949349402 people stampeded over that day.

I think I went from, like, 100 readers a day to 250, after that Nester boost. Mathfully, that's a bump of 900 thousand percent.

(Here we pause for June to be annoyed by how thin she was, and how Topamax stopped working for her that way, and why isn't life fair? WHY MUST LIFE PULL THE MIRACLE-PILL RUG OUT??)

Pretty soon, people were emailing me for love advice (they don't anymore, obvs) and cat advice and just writing me in general. They'd write long-winded emails about their lives, because I think it seemed like I became a friend. I was like an unattractive Jennifer Aniston.

At first, it was such a novelty, hearing from readers, that I'd tell Marvin–my ex–about it, and we'd be delighted together and so on. And then I started talking to my readers more than I did Marvin. Which is not why we got divorced, but it is telling.

I remember looking at my reader numbers and having a little test with myself. If at 3:00, I had 300 readers that day, I was cool. I highly recommend little tests like this; they are marvelous for your self-esteem. Always look outside yourself for your self-worth.

Self-Esteem Tips That Probably Are Stupid, by June.

It was when Marvin left that my already-growing numbers of readers shot up, and I promise I won't just be all JUNE'S RISE TO FAME. BY JUNE. IN A BLOG ABOUT JUNE. I'm about to get humble, I assure you.

But in the year 2011, I was getting–wow, I don't know–sometimes 4,000 readers a day? It was a lot, for me, anyway. I'd get hundreds of comments all the time, like it was nothing. I remember being at work and looking at my Gmail, and there'd always be 20 more emails to read from my blog email–those would all be comments.

It was exciting. I got gifts and emails from people and Marvin and I both got recognized out in public. Woo, it was a time. I grew genuinely fond of some readers, they became friends. I still haven't met most of them.

Then I blew it. Please see: June: Everything in her whole life.

I think it was my temper, as it always is, and my impulsiveness, as it always is.

Here are the ways I am shitty: I have a terrible temper where I fly off the handle. I make impulsive decisions I later regret. I say things I think are hilarious and end up hurting someone's feelings, going for the funny instead of thinking about being kind.

Those are m'big three. My Achilles' heels, which are not nearly as cute as my sparkly ones up there.

One day I asked everyone on this blog to tell me where they lived. Hey, here's where you're all from! That kind of thing. The next morning on my way out somewhere, I recorded hundreds of answers and hit "Publish."

So, in a hurry and then also maths. Plus geography.

I went out to lunch with the Tall Boy, I remember, and when I came back I had all sorts of fairly whiny comments. I'm SORRY, but they WERE.

JOOOOOON! You didn't mention my state!

I'm from Ucatabwah and you didn't mention it!

JOOOOOOOOOON! You added wrong! I sat here all morning and added them myself and see you said 14 people are from Hoodehoochville and it's 15!

So here's what I did. Here's my stellar, mature response and I want you to know I'm WORLDS different now.

Heh.

I pulled the post.

I just yanked it down, in a huff, the way my grandmother would have, and went about my day haughtily. FINE, then. You know I'm in big trouble when I say to myself, "FINE, then." Something impulsive this way comes.

My numbers have never been as big since. Well, I say that, but I don't really know that. Sitemeter went crazy on the hair-oyn and left town years ago, Google Analytics made itself way harder than it needs to be, so I…yanked myself off it it in an impulsive huff. (Shut up.) So now I don't even know how many people read me, and really, who cares? Asks the woman who just went on about it for 90 paragraphs.

But here's what I learned. I learned that people will come and go. They will get over you faster than a Wacky Wall Walker. And you have to treasure the ones who stay around, even when you are not charming. Those are the people who matter.

So, thank you to the ones who've stuck around for 10 years, even when I was boring that day or so full of myself that you felt barfy. Thank you for staying through dead pets and relationships and trial puppies and migraines. Thank you for staying through all the selfies and my selfishness. Thank you for watching my goddamn videos and for never saying, "June, stop dancing."

Because I will always keep dancing.

I will continue to be all the flawed things I am, and it's lovely to be loved through them by all y'all all.

I'm just now forming the thought that all this time I've been feeding Steely Dan too much. I thought he was much younger, and those oh-so-easy-to-read instructions on his canned food said to feed him three times a day. But now he's seven months old, and I'll bet I don't have to feed him at lunch anymore.

I wanted to capture him looking incredulously at the camera, but instead he's editorializing again, covering my offensive coffee with his judgey kitten foot. Once he learns to talk, he'll probably be all, dat bad for yuu, yuu no. make yuu jittree.

I don't know why petspeak needs to be misspelled. They're not writing it.

Anyway, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, tomorrow is my 10-year anniversary of blogging, and I spent 87 hours worrying about which photos to put in my 10-year video, cause I'd be all, yeah, it's good, but is it TEN YEARS good. And then I realized there were about 15 pets to cover and who should I leave out and basically the whole thing was hard. Life is hard. The point is, I finally finished it and got it on YouTube only to break up with Ned and have all the photos of him piss me off now, but even still, the damn thing is a retrospective of my past 10 years and he's in my last five years, so.

THE POINT IS, you guys started LOOKING for it. A coworker, who's read me for like four weeks and doesn't know any of the players, was even all, "I went on YouTube to try to see that video early and I can't find it."

Sigh.

So yesterday I put it on Facebook, but here it is for the rest of us. Videovus, for the rest of us. You know I have no idea what that's from? I know everyone goes on about it and laughs and high fives, but I am clueless. It must be a show I never cared about, like that one show about radio with Maura Tierney or the one about people working in cubicles where Roy and Jim or Roy and Pam or someone were always about to get married or something.

Oh my god anyway, here, without further ado, a day early because you guys are terrible, is my video in celebration of 10 years of blogging!

Taa-daaaa! I love that the shot they used, here, is Dick Whitman's mom. Cutest thing, ever. Plus I look good. That's what matters. I remember this is before I met Ned, and I was dating a different boy, and that was the first day we ever Did It.

What's with my eyebrows in that photo?

Oh! And speaking of eyebrows, I think Ima make it till payday!! On Monday, I had $21 to last till Thursday, and then I went to see It's a Wonderful Life at my old theater because it's what I do, so with the ticket and parking I had $10 left, but here it is Wednesday and that $10 is in tact and I have fish and spaghetti and you know what this is like? Remember in It's a Wonderful Life when they had the two single dollars left at 6 p.m.? That's what it's like.

A few of you sent me donations to celebrate my anniversary of bothering you for 10 years, and that's exciting and very kind! It will be here in a few days and then I will be high on the hog, man! And I know you guys talked in the comments about everyone sending me 10 dollars for 10 years, but I know it's most expensive-ist time of the damn year, and I do not expect that at all. Just that you're reading me is nice. I mean, who wants to read my crap every day? You do.

I didn't want to go off on this tangent. Want to save it for tomorrow. So I will.

Paula H&B, faithful reader, found the most ridiculously wonderful collection of middle-aged women in mid-century standing next to ridiculous Christmas trees, and I am in love. I am obsessed. I cannot get enough of these photos. They're my favorite things ever.

Do you really believe the "joyful" new year part? Cause those cards are staring at you in Personal Growth. (It's a When Harry Met Sally line. Sue me.) Those cards are the cards that insist you put on sunscreen before you can run out to the water. Those cards are first in line for flu shots. Those cards would never be 51 and living on $10 all week.

Also, I take issue with those cards capitalizing "New Year" the way it's used.

I'd better get in the shower, and I want you to–

goddammit.

He's up there eatin' the big cats' food. That jerk. Look at his little back footie, though.

Why do we have to have all these cats? [Looks behind her at whomever's responsible.]

…Oh.

Talk at you tomorrow. As I have done almost every day for the last 10 damn years.

There's a fine line between telling the truth as much as you can on a blog, which I try to do, and exposing someone else's story. Just because you choose to tell all your shit on a website (narcissistic disorder) doesn't mean everyone else in your life is signed on.

So yesterday I got on here and told you how–surprise!!!–my reuniting with Ned did not stick. And I told you a little about it, but then I went to work and felt like I had to take a Silkwood shower. As much as I'm not fond of Ned right now, I didn't feel good about exposing our terrible fight to the world.

So I took the post down. And I got on Pie on the Face (on Facebook) and talked to you about it. And remember, we decided to keep that discussion over there.

OVER THERE! OVER THERE! I DON'T KNOW THE RESTOFTHESONG! OVER THERE!

So, yeah. And the thing is, when we first decided to do 90 days, same as cash, I at first thought, "This is insane. I'm just prolonging my Ned agony. This'll never work." But then we spent all this time together, and it was great, and our vacation to the beach was perfect and I actually formed the thought, "Wow, this might really be okay this time."

Then boom. It didn't. So. But thanks for all your support on PieFace yesterday, y'all. For your support over there.

OVER THERE! OVER THERE! What the fuck. Is that song. OVER THERE!

We had our terrific ending on Friday night, Ned and I did, and I took a cab back to my house. A lovely man from West Africa drove me home, and I asked about his life, and why he prefers here to New York, which is where he first came when he got here. He was a very nice man who was probably delighted to be driving my crying ass home and has no excuse for not marrying me, which I suggested. He's probably already on his way back to any corner of Africa. Doesn't have to be west.

Because I have 21 dollars till payday, and I had an empty tank of gas, I spent the weekend watching cat fisticuffs and binging This Is Us. Am obsessed now, like the rest of you. Who's your favorite? Gotta be the boyfriend of Kate, right?

I also did my cards, and I don't mean I had sex with my cards. I opted for jaunty-as-fuck red birds on teal, as you do, and also what I call Christmas in Yer Fuckin' FACE.

IT'S CHRISTMAS, YO. Wait. Wait'll you see the envelopes. If you were here yesterday for my special one-hour collector's edition post, you already saw the envelope, but I imagine you are still reeling. Hang on to your hat.

I SAID CHRISTMAAAAAAS.

[grabs your lapel] DO YOU NOT KNOW THE DATE?

Anyway, I got halfway done, and now I hafta finish my cards tonight with a tasteful charcoal reindeer etching, the polar opposite of GET HAPPY birds and HEY! Santa!!, above. If your last name is A–L, you're all, okay, June. Be more frenetic. If you're an M–Z, you'll think wow, is June ever sedate this year.

I have a lotta people on my list, plus I feel compelled to write a personal note, because what's really the point of a card that's just all "Love, The Johnsons." Yeah, what about you, Johnsons? So I do stupid things like draw family portraits, and there's really no way to not make Edsel look like a rabbit. I guess his teeth are going the wrong way, aren't they? They should go up, not down. Why did I not pursue that career as a painter?

Anyway, considering my relationship is over AGAIN and I was desperately trying not to break into that $21, it was a good weekend. I finally had to charge gas yesterday, as my car has a convenient notification system that tells me how many miles I have to go on that particular tank of gas, and it was saying, "GRAB THE CAN, SISTER."

Then I went to the movies. I am sorry, but seeing It's a Wonderful Life at the old movie theater is my joint, and it was on, and fuck it. So I spent that $7 ($14 left), brought my own popcorn and a bottle of water (shhhh), and even though I got there half an hour early, the parking lot was full. Goddammit.

There was one asshole in a white truck taking up two spots. He was still in his truck, looking at his phone. People looking at their phones pisses me off way out of proportion to reality. I mean, they aren't beating a hobo. Anyway, I got out my car and tapped on his glass. He startled.

Good.

"May I pull in? The lot is full."

"I'm savin' this for my mother-in-law," he said.

Wow. Which is what I said. "Wow. Okay." Roooood.

So I had to go to a lot and pay $4 ($10 left), but it was worth it. I sat in the polar opposite place that Ned and I ever sit, and the place was packed, and I was the first person to run out of there like a little bitch, so if, indeed, he was there, I got away with it.

Anyway, tonight I celebrate my love for you and also finish my cards. Just two more nights of not spending my last $10! Can she do it? Will June make it till Thursday morning?

Oh, and Thursday morning, I'll finally show you my damn 10-year anniversary video, now that it's done and I spent forever on it and it's riddled with photos of Ned. I see on YouTube that 10 of you already looked at it, you delayed-gratification-what's-that motherfuckers.we so bore of that veeedeo

I will talk at you tomorrow, unless I starve to death, and also, you realize Mr. Potter is Donald Trump, right? It hit me during his "lazy rabble" speech. And when he grabbed Mary Hatch's vagina.

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Why does Edsel have to go outside and bark bark bark? The neighbors must hate me. Can't he just enjoy outdoors? Sniff a rock and survey his domain in silence, the way Tallulah did? But no. Instead, he tears over to one of the four backyards we face (one is sort of in the corner. And it technically shows us TWO yards) and barks endlessly at anyone who has the nerve to be in his or her own dwelling. Particularly if any of those people happen to be dogs.

Is this a Carolina Dog thing? I need to get on my Edsel Support Group page on Facebook. We're all forever checking in on one another. "Does your Carolina Dog make prank phone calls? Does your Carolina Dog always burn the chicken?"

Do you karoline dog ROCK DE INTERNET?

Speaking of chicken, I've ruined the chicken and the egg so far this week. On Sunday I went to the grocery store and got things like yogurt and nuts and fruit and spinach until Ned finally said, "What's gotten INTO you?" and I explained to him how tired of feeling fat I was, a thing he can identify with because he can't work out with his bulging disk and he abhors his own self currently.

He's been out of town all week, Ned has, and each night I come home and make something sensible and do Tracy Chapman and so far I've gained six pounds.

Anyway, the first thing I did was never cook the chicken breasts I bought, and now they've gone bad. They're using the wrong form of "their" on Facebook and protesting soldiers' funerals cause they hate gay people.

Then last night I made the eggs. "How do you hard-boil eggs?" I asked Ned when he called me from the airport. He's not staying at an airport; rather, he was coming home. His plane was delayed, natch, and it made his mood sparkling. He got in late last night and has to get up for physical therapy at 8:00 today, so.

He gets too tired for PT at 8:00. He likes the theater and always comes late. He's extra into whatever he ate. That's why my boyfriend-for-90-days-same-as-cash is a tramp.

That song makes no sense. I mean, MY version totally does, but the real one. How do any of those traits make you a tramp? I mean, you could just apply any trait and be all, "Tramp."

She blogs for too long; for work she is late. She's dragged to movies she knows she will hate. If she and Ned fail, she wants a rebate.

That's why the Juney is a tramp.

I have no idea what we were talking about. Let's move on. And that's why the lady is a tramp. No matter what your comment is today, I want you to follow it up with telling me why that makes you a tramp. You know how I get. That's why the blogger is a tramp.

She talks about her crap with barons and earls.

Okay, I'm over it. No, I'm not. I'm like Edsel in the yard. I can't get over it.

I finished my 10-year-anniversary-of-blogging video last night. I came IN here to write something for Purple Clover (I know, right? They asked) and after, I took a gander at my video and then sat here for 29 hours changing it again. I did not use the photo above, where Ned looks pensive and deep but really he was checking out the menu at Steak and Shake. But I've always liked that Ned shot. That's why the lady is a tramp.

You probably saw this cute Iris photo on Facebook already, unless you are officially my mother, who is not on Facebook. While I was home, I noted if I typed Facebook into her search bar, it just leaped right into my FB page. Mom'd been bemoaning missing out on family things by not being on, and I said, "If you want, just get on Facebook through my page. I don't care."

So she took her laptop and typed it in and started perusing my wall, till she came across a political post she did not appreciate. Did not cotton to. Did not care for the cut of that Facebooker's jib. "How do I leave a response?" she asked. And that is when I took FB away from mom.

I took this photo of The Poet's dinosaur bag to show Ned, and then I never did. Please see: Ned is in Chicago Being President-y. But now you can all see it, and congratulations. Please see My Readers Aren't Presidents of Anything.

Speaking of readers, did I show you this? A bunch of readers got together and got this artist woman to make a needlepoint of my Luis! Oh, Lu. Look how she got every detail right. That's just where her ears fell. And her little Pitty jaw.

Here's what I do when there's sadness. I feel sad at the TIME, but then I rally and I'm all okay, I'm okay. I can do this. Let me just adopt a Stanley or something. And then I feel bad months later, for a really long time. I have a delayed reaction, and it's worse the second time. Like, my grandmother died, and I still feel the impact of it, whereas at the time I was all, oh okay. I can do this. I can handle this. And then it turns out, no you can't.

That's how I feel about Lu. I feel worse now than I did when she died. I hate fucking grief. I think we're better off not liking anything. And that's why your blogger is a tramp.

How did I go for a thousand words about nothing? If a blogger types a thousand words, then why can't I say anything resembling anything? These words will never show the you I've come to know.

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Till Christmas, I will keep this post pinned to the top of my blog, which means you have to scroll down every day to get that day's new post. Say "post" one more time.

We do good deeds in December around these parts, and the very best deed you can do for me is to not refer to them as RAoKs. Every year for eight or nine years I've called them "good deeds," and every year it segues into being called "RAoKs" (which stands for random acts of kindness, and for some reason the part where people are throwing around the word "random" gets on my nerves. "That's random!" Oh, shut up) and then I get angina and die.

So, yeah, kindness.

We used to pair up, so Sadie and Tee, for example, would be RAoK friends–see what I did there?–so that Sadie would be obligated to Tee to get her kind deed done. But that got to be a pain in my ASS and we don't pair people up anymore.

So, yeah, kindness.

The point is, go forth, RANDOM reader, and do something nice this season, or do 62 nice things, whatever, and come back and tell us about it. At some point, some crab apple will get on here and say, "When I do good things, I don't talk about it. I just do it."

Yeah, you're clearly benevolent AF.

The point of telling is to get inspired, and to make other people happy reading about these kind acts. Asshole.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

It doesn't have to cost a cent. For example, the night of my work party, I ran to Rite Aid to get tanning lotion, and I found this new Sally Hansen mouse kind that I'm pretty happy with, except THIRTEEN DOLLARS, geez, and then I saw my Taylor Swift perfume, and I'm sorry that I like Taylor Swift perfume. I didn't mean to; my father sent it as a joke once and I got hooked. I ran out ages ago, and even Ned has been all, "Whatever happened to your Taylor Swift perfume? It was great. Where can I buy you some?" and I was all, I don't know, the Teen Girls Are Annoying Store, most likely located in an annoying mall near you?

Oh my god anyway.

I ended up having a ton of stuff to buy, and I let the buying-one-small-item woman behind me go ahead of me in line. Turns out of course she wanted to use her goddamn discount card, and said, "Now I suppose you expect me to find it," and then she did this TREASURE HUNT through the small Egyptian city located inside her PURSE, and I have no idea why Egyptian. So then I wished her dead and embalmed in a pyramid, and MERRY CHRISTMAS!

So, yeah, kindness.

Tell us in the comments what YOUR good deed is, and try not to drone on the way I have here, and in turn we'll all run out and do our own nice things that we will not refer to as RAoK. Donate your old towels to an animal shelter. Spend time with people in a nursing home. Put coins in all the parking meters. Shovel your neighbor's walk. Just whatever.

Also, not being mean does not count as a kindness. "Didn't punch my smug sister" does not count.

"Oh, good. It's that time of year that June makes us look at her daily Christmas cup. And also at the makeup smudges on her desk."

And her beaming-up dog.

Yesterday was Tallulah's birthday, but I tried not to dwell on that lest I fall into a sobfest. It was also Steely Dan's final round of shots, which looked liked no fun for him. They took him in the back, as they mysteriously do now, and brought him right back. "I'm so sorry," said the flustered tech. "He saw this little dog back there, just a tiny dog, and jumped right out of my arms after it. He arched up and hissed."

They decided to do his shots right in the room. Steely Dan is a bad ass.

He also weighs 7 pounds. Which is not what a 4-month-old (16 weeks) kitten should weigh. See what I did, there? I did the weeks to be annoying. You and your 37-month-old child. They took a gander at his teefs, a thing that similarly thrilled him, and determined he was not born July 11, but May 15.

"That makes perfect sense," I said. "He's so totally a Taurus and not a Cancer." I had to explain, then, that I used to live in LA and we needed to know all the astrology in order to get our driver's license.

While SD and I waited for the vet, he mostly leaped. The cat. Not the vet.

He leaped off the table.

Then on.

Off.

On.

You get my drift.

how bout dis? dis for jumpeeng? it be anytheeng?

Anyway, after they gave him his horrible rabies shots (he bit a guy at work just minutes before his rabies shot. Am looking forward to that guy foaming today) and boosters and deworming medicine, they said, Hey, give us 288 dollars and you can go. (I also got his flea meds.)

The GOOD news is, because he's older than we thought, he's all set for neutering December 30. Yay! New year, no sack. No baby new year for THIS guy. And yes, I am having a de-sacking party for him, as I did for Edsel seven years ago.

I took that poor soon-to-be-sackless baby back home and got to work, and then at lunch I busied myself arranging all my apps by color on my phone.

RIGHT? How bad do you want to be me right now?!

It's something of a tradition that they let us out early to get ready for the work Christmas party, and yes they call it a Christmas party, so I hurried home to see if the baby kitty was okay, and I couldn't find him and grew alarmed. I looked in his kitten bed…

…but as usual, Lily was bogarting it.

I was hoping he was resting in the sun, but it was Iris was in the bedroom, on my oh-so-neatly-made bed. "If you make your bed, the whole room looks neater," Ned often smugs. "It's the biggest piece of furniture in your room."

Oh, shut up.

Finally, I found him, with an eye mask and a Do Not Disturb sign. Poor Steely Dan. He never did rally, all night. He's a little livelier today, but hasn't eaten much. He thought he wanted to eat, then looked at it and said, Yeah, no.

Then, I got up with some of the Alexes at the manicure place. They both got a deep burgundy, but one got glitter and one didn't. aka worlds different.

This Alex had trouble deciding, and finally the manicure lady was all, "Just let your spirit be free," a thing she said with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and right then I knew, I loved the manicure lady.

Until, at the end, when all the fun was had, she asked, "Was that your daughter and her friend?"

I mean, YES, I could be their mother, but I get drunk with these people. Dang.

Old mom, here, got navy nails with one gold glitter nail on each hand. Note my Princess Diana/Kate real sapphire ring not at all from QVC, which is where they got theirs.

It went with my navy-and-champagne-polka-dot frock I got from Stitch Fix. Also, my vanity mirror is still not put together, and the light bulb is burnt out in the other room with a full-length mirror, so getting ready was a pleasure.

I put on enough makeup to join the Ice Capades.

And waited for my Mug Shot date. I just want you to know in real life, he laughs and smiles. You get a camera out and he's all Cell Block H.

The work CHRISTMAS party is no small feat. It's at this elegant hotel, and everyone's kids are invited, and there's shrimp and that one kind of red meat that's on that giant slab of meat and someone stands there and cuts it. What's that called? And there are presents for everyone under 10, and since I'm a 10 I didn't get one. Anyway, behold The Poet and Jane West, feasting. That is Ned's beer and not The Poet's. The idea of The Poet grabbing herself a brew is just about killing me right now.

The bartender got the beer out the ice, then smacked it onto a napkin and rolled it up. "Did you SEE that?" I asked, Ned, delighted. I don't get out a lot.

It's also dark in that room. Look what a wide load I am next to skinny Alex. Jesus.

The little kids were all dancing during the dinner music, throwing themselves across the dance floor and sliding and so on. You have no idea how bad I wanted to join them. But I'd have looked drunk, even though I wasn't.

There's one kid I've always been enamored with. I've put a picture of her in here, from a Halloween party in 2011, but I don't have time to search for it because Ned just called me to talk about his fancy president things he has to do, and one person you should really rely on for how to president is me. Nancy Reagan, over here. Just say yes.

If I were First Lady, which one would I be? I want to be Jackie, but let's face it, I'm Betty Ford.

Anyway, she's outgoing and delightful and she wears glasses, this kid who's at every Christmas party. I'm forever asking her dad if she's gonna be there again that year, and I'm certain at this point he's all, What the hell with June and her obsession with my kid?

But she gets out there in her little Christmas dress and leads the kid dancing every year.

This year, she came right over to my table. "I like your polka-dot dress," she told me. Then she turned to Ned. "Hi, I'm Morgan, " she announced confidently. Oh my god.

Anyway, we danced, Kid of Confidence and me. We danced to some song I've never heard in my life, because old and no mainstream music exposure, then we danced to some song from the '70s I was thoroughly enjoying and can no longer recall. Play That Funky Music? I really can't remember. It was 10 hours ago.

"Did you have fun?" asked Ned as we drove home. We were the last people to leave. Poor Ned.

"I did. Except…" I hesitated.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"I don't feel like there was enough exclaiming by everyone over how pretty I looked."

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Oh my god, hi. {flumps coat and purse in booth} I've been so busy that I haven't even had time to write you. {looks at menu} What we havin'? Are we havin' nachos? Because you know I want nachos.

I will recap my weekend for you, because I understand about your tenterhooks, so let's go so you can stop hanging on them.

On Friday I had lunch with a shitload of my delightful and charming and arm-crossy coworkers, to welcome the new guy, and in fact you can't even see the new guy in any of these shots.

He was at that plate closest to my left, there, and perhaps he is a vampire. I don't know. Wait. Are vampires unable to be photographed, or just unable to look in the mirror? If it's mirror, no one burst through my floor-to-ceiling window at night and turn me into Vampira. Plus, if I'm stuck in this body forevermore, I don't want the 51-year-old one. Can we go back to hey, 19?

What age did you look your best? I think I peaked at 24. It's been downhill ever since. Welcome to my nightmare.

In the afternoon, Bitchy Resting Face Alex, who doesn't even work there anymore, showed up at work. And hey, 90 million dollar iPhone, can you NEVER adjust for the light? She'd accidentally ordered a bookcase to come to her old work rather than her new work. BRF Alex. Not my iPhone. We all spent the next half hour saying, Oh just stay and work here again. It's not the same without BRF Alex.

On Friday night, my coworkers continued to Come Let Us Adore June at a 30th birthday party for yet ANOTHER coworker, Alex.

The party was held at Alex's uncle's, a man who is CLEARLY all bachelor all the time. Hint: Pinball machine in the den. "Oooo, is that pinball?" British Alex asked. "I've only ever played it as an app!"

…..!

There was karaoke in the living room. I actually have a one-minute video of said karaoke, because at the time it seemed like a brilliant idea for me to film it. Then I got home, sobered up, and listened to it.

Ned mostly looked at his phone. He did play pool with my coworker Austin, whom I sit near at work, is close (enough) to my age, and with whom I work often, so I mention him a lot, and I had no idea the two of them had never met, because you can imagine how Austin has to hear "Ned this" and "Ned that" all day long. So it was cute they took up pool with each other without me introducing them.

I am literally going to go to work today and just say, "Ned this" and see how Austin takes it.

Austin. With bonus sighting of tenant, fmr., halfway cut off!

"Austin was really great," said Ned. "I thought from your stories he'd be more like you, but he wasn't overbearing at all."

I'll take "Why Didn't Ned Get Any" for $100, Alex.

On Saturday, Ned and I got up and put up my new blinds in the living room and computer room, fmr., and I really need to get over the "fmr." thing. It's FORMER. Stands for FORMER. I thought everyone knew that till someone was all, "What's fmr.?"

your manyoo el laber bore steeeelee dan

Steely Dan supervised. He gets his last round of shots today, so he finally won't be rabid like a bat, a thing he's quite overdue for I had one of my King Kamehameha migraines and had to cancel his last appt. That stands for "appointment." Are you going to be okay? So today is Take Your Kitten to Work Day–he'll only be there for 45 minutes but I'm sure he'll pop off some scathing memos anyway.

TO WHO IT CUNCERN: WERK SUK. CATZ GET TO NAP ALL DAY. heeeeeeeeee! REGARDZ: STEELY

TO ALL PERSNEL: TUNA AT ALL DESK NOW. HI PRY OR IT EE. STEELY D.

Anyway, we bickered less than you'd think, Ned and me, but it was still a pain in the ass hanging those blinds, and I'd show you a photo but it's dark dark dark in the living room and you'd get an underwater, I'm-eating-at-Long-John-Silver look you don't want. Also, the handle part is sticking up and I don't know how to get it not to. I'll get a photo to you promptly. Sort of.

Then we dashed over to Ned's house and put up his new insanely large TV. We bickered less than you'd think, but it was still a pain in the ass. We watched TV after, naturally, and this "smart TV" was large and detailed and full of features…

The only thing of note to happen Sunday was I shut Steely Dan in a drawer by accident. Didn't know he was in there till I heard the plaintive mew. And it wasn't a, like, big drawer full of pants, either. It was my stationery drawer in the hutch.

Also, my mother sent reiki to Ned, which is this healing energy thing that's zapped a few of my migraines. "Did you zap some commitment energy into him?" I asked. So far his neck still hurts, but we'll see.

Oh, and also, Edsel dropped the DVD remote into his water bowl, so now he's at the pound, and also I can't finish season seven of the Mary Tyler Moore show.

y you got to air derty laundry, mom?

It's a big petspeak day here at the pie. I'm laundering even as we speak. It always bothered Ned that I spread the laundry out like that. He even commented on it yesterday. Hashtag, we do better in separate houses. Hashtag, someone has some sort of clean DISORDER, if you ask me.

Hashtag, Ned just called me from his car and I told him all this, and he pointed out I always complain that my clothes have fur on them and how do I think they get that way could it be from being on the floor.

I really dearly want a bra/slip set that's leopard print. Wouldn't that be great? I'd say then I could seduce someone six years younger than me the way Mrs. Robinson technically did, but even a man six years younger is an old fuck.

I say the day I get my leopard set, I should be allowed one evening off to sleep with a college freshman. What's wrong with that? (® Violet Bicks)

So now I gotta go. I gotta get the cat carrier down and shove SD Silverman in it and take him to work. Then after work is my work's Christmas party, and my Stitch Fix came this weekend with a blue dress, and that is what I am wearing, which, hashtag convenient.

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There's a new guy at work, and they put him next to me because clearly they loathe him, and I was reading your most-hated Christmas songs yesterday and laughing out loud. Ell Oh Ell-ing, as they say. And by "they" I mean assholes.

Seriously. When I was out there dating during my Ned breakup, any man who included "LOL" in his correspondence got immediately disqualified. Faithful Reader Fay, who I am sorry to tell you LOLs but not in front of me, used to say, "You've gotta get over the LOL thing." She also used to say, "You've gotta get over the morning text thing." Fay has no idea what she's talking about, with her happy marriage and so forth.

If I ever went out with a guy and the next morning he texted, "Good morning, June," I immediately got a soft cone. I mean, when I was first dating Ned, I still liked him even when he wrote me the morning after our first date, when all he had to do was nudge me.

Harrrrrrrrr. That is untrue. Ned and I did not even kiss till the second date. I swear. And then we kissed good night at the door 417 times for two months, because unbeknownst to me he was all, "This one, I'm going to actually get to know first."

Why I had to be the recipient of the New-Non-Bone-Jumping-Ned experiment is beyond me, because all I WANTED to do was stop getting to know him and get to know him, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down.

THE POINT IS, Ned's email the day after our first date was well-written, and clever, and nice, and actually necessary cause he was leaving town, and I was all, Oooooo, cannot wait to kiss this guy at the door for the next 417 dates.

But the uninspired, "Good morning, June" text just didn't do it for me. You guys should totally leave "Good morning, June" comments all day now. Or just "LOL."

What was I originally talking about? Oh. The poor guy next to me. So yeah, I laughed out loud yesterday, and he looked over at me, because he's new and not immune to my personality like new people always are for about a month, and then they ignore me.

"I should tell you I have blog comments, and sometimes they make me laugh. Just ignore me," I told him, and the Ignore June train is pullin' in.

"Let's just pretend there's a, you know, wall between us," he said, laughing and sort of pantomiming a wall, and I liked him right away, because bitchy always appeals to me.========

Speaking of when I was dating when Ned and I were apart, yesterday I was emailing with him, and back in the day we used to email all the time. At least a few times a day. Now he's all fancy president, and my job got all different, and sometimes we have a frantic phone call at lunchtime and that's it. But yesterday we emailed, and I made some sort of joke about some dude I dated while we were apart, and some even funnier joke about how I'd had sex with that guy so many times and so on, and pressed Send, because HAVE YOU MET ME?

I never heard from Ned again that day, but I didn't think anything of it now that we're both Officially Busy®. We were supposed to have dinner, and usually he'll call around 5:30 to tell me how many more damn hours he'll be at work, and Dear My Workplace: If you were considering making me president, please don't. Good gravy.

But I still didn't think anything of it when it was 7:00 and no Ned, and maybe I should stop with the benign neglect, because finally he called me to say he was on his way, and I was all, "Did you work late?" and he said, "No. I've been home."

"You've been HOME? Why didn't you come get me?"

Turns out Ned was mad mad mad at me, because he BELIEVED me that I'd slept with that dude, and that I'd accidentally let "the truth" slip out and OH MY GOD. You know how sometimes I'll make some sort of joke here, like that I'm a gold medal Olympian, and one or two of you will be all, "June, I didn't know you threw the discus" and I'll be all OH MY GOD I WAS KIDDING? You know how that happens?

That is totally what happened yesterday. I always think people know when I'm joking, and I figured Ned has been knowing me FIVE YEARS now and would know when I was making a tasteless hilarious joke (please see: All the time) but no.

Oh, poor little Ned. He went to the store and bought a 12-pack. He'd been planning to drink it and not call me. But then he talked to me instead and SEE HOW MUCH PROGRESS?

Anyway, I feel like a dick. The sex with that guy wasn't even that great, so.

See what I did? I made another terrible joke.

Anyway, we did go out to dinner, and came home after to Needy Committee love. At dinner, we sat behind an older couple of color who were nattily dressed and having a great time with each other. "Do you hear them?" asked Ned. "They're having such a good time together. Every couple should aspire to be this couple."

We left the same time they did, and they walked through the parking lot holding hands,

then got in separate cars and left.

"HOLY SHIT," we both said.

So. The secret to happiness is an affair. Lesson. Learned.

I leave you with this image of one of the Alexes, who turned 30 yesterday. God. Remember when that seemed old? It's sort of like how I was sad when I hit 127 pounds.

I may be old and I may be chubby, but I can still sleep with everyone in town when I broke up with Ned.

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Okay, this isn't nearly as dirty of a post as my title made it seem. However, two of the young hot blonde Alexes came over–and, again, this is not a dirty post.

But they did come over; I never thought it would happen to me. (That's only funny if you enjoy the Penthouse Forum) (and who doesn't?!) They helped me decorate for Christmas, is what they did. And while I'd like to tell you all about it, first of all I got to bed late and couldn't find matching pajamas…

That's hot. Do you know who I don't miss? Is Paris Hilton.

But then I woke up late, in m'nice pajamas that even Edsel is appalled by, and got on the phone with Ned, and now it's after 8:00 and I've yet to shower. So here are the photos from last night without my brilliant comments and you are just going to have to adjust your expectations.

You know what I hate? Is any reference to "big girl" anything. But particularly "panties." In fact, if you say "panties" to me, you're pretty much guaranteed to go on my "I don't like that person" list. Merry Christmas!!

But really. Panties.

Speaking of bitchy and petty, what is your least-favorite Christmas song? We discussed this last night as we struggled to find any decent Xmas music online.

What Child is This. That's mine. Also Won't You See My Panties by Paris Hilton.

Okay, here are the photos from last night. We made Shirley Temples and I have never been so sugar high in my life.

(Much like how when you take me to a restaurant I should just order a plate of mashed potatoes because that's why I'm really there, at Christmas, if you just give me five pounds of tinsel to decorate with, I'm good.)